Requiem
by Nearly headless Natalie
Summary: One final, unexpected mourner holds his own funeral at the White Tomb and realizes that the only thing worse than death is the death of one's deepest desires.


((I am not J.K. Rowling. I would really like to be J.K. Rowling, though. Then again, if she kills off Harry in book seven, perhaps not.

I really have no idea where this came from…it started out being a fluffy plot bunny in my head and turned into…a most un-fluffy bunny. Enjoy.))

Requiem

The early summer afternoon on the rippling grass of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry faded into evening. The mourners crowded together for small talk, worried glances, and some remaining tears. One by one, as the sun crept steadily downward, the mourners left, leaving only the Headmistress of an institution that would not likely open its doors again standing alone. She stood by the side of the white tomb, tearless, before turning away with a heavy, troubled sigh. It appeared as if the Headmistress had aged a few decades in the course of a few days.

A few moments later, a flock of house-elves appeared on the grounds, speaking to each other in high, squeaky voices. Chairs disappeared in a series of sharp cracks, sounding as if a box of Weasley Wizard Wheeze's fireworks had suddenly gone off at once. The few bits of litter left by the mourners were picked up, and the Scottish countryside returned as it had been before, aside from the solemn white grave. Each house elf gave a respectful nod at the tomb, while one, wearing a tower of hats on its head and at least three different pairs of socks, burst into a fury of shrill tears. After all the other house elves had gone, the sobbing one gave one final heart-wrenching sob before disappearing with a pop.

Suddenly, a hawk lighted from one of the trees and landed at the foot of the grave, morphing into a tall, thin man dressed in black.

Dusk had passed and the last vestiges of light were giving way to the darkness ebbing around it. If the man in black had been of a poetic mind, he might have thought it deeply symbolic--that the death of the greatest wizard that ever lived left little light for the survivors to fight with against the encroaching darkness. But the man had never been considered poetic on the best of days with the most understanding of people; the term poetic inferred that a person had gentle tolerance for humans and the world, not caustic scorn. However, his attention was not on the darkening sky at all, but rather on the white tomb.

With his long, pale digits the man pushed back the hood of his cloak. Sallow and unattractive, the man peered over his large, hooked nose and brushed a piece of his black, greasy shoulder-length hair impatiently behind his ear. In better times, he preferred to keep his hair around his face at all times, so as to minimize the few honest, uncalculated reactions that would occasionally break through his habitual stoic, indifferent expression. It would not do for his students to know that, occasionally, the dreaded Bat of Hogwarts might not be able to predict what they would do. Now, however, with his paranoia on an all time high, he did not wish to impede his vision to the sides, in case of an attack.

His expression, however, would tell no secrets to any beholder. His thin lips were closed tightly with a permanent look of displeasure, his brows slightly furrowed, as though brooding. His jaw occasionally clenched beneath his prominent cheek bones, expressing his distaste for the world as a whole. Only his dark, black eyes gave any hint that the cold, somber man standing there felt anything at all. His eyes were riveted on the gravestone, flickering with a unfathomable expression.

He closed his eyes briefly for a moment, gave a sigh reminiscent to that of the present Headmistress, and pinched his nose with his right hand. With his left, he flicked his wand, causing a chessboard, complete with pieces, a set of red robes, and a purple drawstring bag, to appear.

Glancing around once more, the man, with an expression of repugnance, pulled on the bright red robes (with threads of gold in the shape of gallivanting lions) over his dark ones. Then, he pulled a pointy wizard hat out of the pocket and placed it on his head.

The look of utter agony on the man's face resembled that of someone being tortured. With another sigh, he looked down at the tombstone and said, in a low, deathly monotone, "You were perfectly right, Headmaster. A change of attire is certainly necessary…not only am I a wanted Death Eater and murderer, but I'm a wanted Death Eater and murderer that looks like a twit."

The man sat down on the ground stiffly, extending his long legs forward and placing his bony hands tentatively on the grass. After he had sufficiently prepared himself, the man levitated the chess board between himself and the grave, the black pieces facing him.

"One last game, Headmaster?" the man asked, "White moves first."

He reached his own hand out and moved a white pawn forward. Then, his black pawn moved the place ordered by the man in black.

It was a short game, a half an hour at best. It was rather difficult to be crafty, however, when the player knew all his opponents, and thus his, moves before they happened. The white, however, surrounded the black queen.

"Checkmate, then, Headmaster?" the man asked softly, as the white knight chased the horrified black queen off of the board, "It seems that you win at last…the first time in--seventeen years, I believe."

The man took his eyes off the chess pieces for a moment and stared steadily at the tombstone once more. "You were always pathetic in chess…you tried to save too many and in the end sacrificed all…you should have made a better sacrifice."

The man seemed to realize what he had said, and his lips pinched together tightly once more, while his hand traveled to its protective spot on the top of his beak-like nose. After a moment and another deep breath, the man in black, his expression blank and shuttered once more, vanished the chess set and picked up the drawstring bag. Pulling it open, with a grimace, he pulled out small, hard yellow ball and popped it into his mouth.

The man pulled a horrid face, but he did not spit it out. After several miserable moments, he seemed to have dissolved the substance and swallowed whatever was left.

"No wonder Minerva told me never to try these," the man muttered, "I would personally enjoy hexing the person who introduced you to"--he paused for dramatic emphasis before spitting each word out with scathing venom--"_sherbet_ _lemons_."

He placed another in his mouth, scowling fiercely.

For a time he was silent, staring ahead, frowning deeply, a deep line appearing between his eye brows. In another time, he would have been concerned for his reputation…the feared Potions Master sitting out in the grass in Gryffindor red and gold robes eating sherbet lemons! Such absurdity couldn't even be dreamed up by the dunderheads he had attempted to _educate_ (his scowl deepened at the thought--as though their hormone-riddled brains would appreciate the beauty of a perfect simmering potion) for the last 17 years.

But that time had passed. He looked gloomily back at the castle, struggling to believe that it had only been a week ago that he had been a respected (with a mental snort, thinking of the Potter Prat and the rest of his Dream Team flagrantly disobeying the rules at every turn, he remained skeptical of that particular description) professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

His dark piercing stare slowly climbed the castle until it reached its peak, the Astronomy Tower. He gave no hint of what was passing through his brilliant mind, but a slight tightening of his lips indicated it was nothing pleasant. Slowly, almost painfully, he looked at the tomb beside him. He traced his long, white fingers along the marble edges.

"I thought I would give you another funeral, Headmaster," the man quietly explained, "I saw the official one. Obviously I was not supposed to be in attendance, but I was here, in my animagus form. You would have hated it. Every Ministry official that had been after your blood for years attended. For Merlin's sake, the great hag _Umbridge_ was here…she wanted you dead even more than the Dark Lord, I daresay."

After speaking the last name, the man gave a slight grimace and brushed his left forearm with his right arm, unconsciously reassuring himself. Then, he popped another sherbet lemon in his mouth.

"They said that you were a wonderful person that lived a wonderful life and should be kept near and dear in the hearts of everyone." The man gave a humph of disdain. "Dull. Maudlin. Hagrid--" his thin lips twisted with derision "--wept so much that I feared he might create another lake on the property."

He continued smirked unpleasantly. "I realize you were…fond of him, but the great oaf has no control of himself. He's so…very…_Gryffindor_."

Only the man in front of the white tomb could possibly use that word as an insult. Grimacing he picked another sherbet lemon out of the bag. Instead of putting it in his mouth, however, he rolled it between his long fingers.

"You would be proud of your protégé, though," he admitted begrudgingly, "The boy attempted to follow me after…" he balked for a moment, closing his eyes and squeezing the bridge of his nose once more "…after. His mind unblocked, making no _attempt_ to surprise me--the perfect Gryffindor hero…proud, brave…and idiotic." A faint sigh was heard. "He did…admirably annoy the Minister. 'Dumbledore's man through and through.' It was worth coming to the event just to see Scrimgeour's face.

"Fawkes was also quite impressive," he continued pensively, "It was just how you would have wanted…a final burst into red and gold flame…"

For a few moments the man was silent. He ran his fingers along the tomb once more, tracing the owner's name from the first capitol "A" to the last "e." The sherbet lemon that had been in his hand rolled to the ground and into the grass, forgotten.

"Is it what you hoped for, Albus?" he asked softly, nearly inaudibly. To anyone who knew the dark man, this would have been entirely unprecedented. He had never referred to Professor Albus Dumbledore as anything other than "Headmaster" for the 17 years he worked at Hogwarts.

"Do you remember my first winter working at Hogwarts?" he asked, unaware of this seeming non sequitur, "It was a miserably cold…there were even icicles growing from the dripping cracks. I was walking around the dungeons trying to keep warm when I opened a door I did not recognize…and I first saw the Mirror of Erised."

He paused for a moment. "I went there for hours everyday that January. Sitting in front of the mirror, looking in silence…and one day you found me and took the mirror away. You did it gently, of course, with all your mad babble about men sitting in front of the mirror for years, not dwelling on dreams…I nodded and understood. It was not to be tolerated, and I would not be tempted by what I could not have."

He waited a moment, as though considering what he was going to say. "I asked you what you saw when you looked in the mirror. And you told me a pair of socks. A lie, as I knew at the time. You in turn asked me what I saw. I told you an Order of Merlin, First Class and a left arm unblemished. It was an easy thing to believe--I was the repenting Death Eater who would do anything to change his hasty, youthful decision. No one would have doubted it--but you. You knew I lied, but you never asked for the truth, just as I never asked you. You always preferred not to know, Albus. I think because, despite your Gryffindor bravado, you were afraid of my answer. Afraid to know what I _really_ wanted."

His piercing gaze locked on the stone once more.

"Sometimes I wondered if you trusted me as much as you claimed you did."

Silence reigned for a moment. The man slowly stood up from the ground, pulling off the garish red and gold robes and vanishing them with a flick of his wand, as well as the bag of sherbet lemons. He adjusted his black cloak, giving a quick glance around the Hogwarts grounds once more.

"Just so you know, Albus," the man said, "I did not see myself with the Order of Merlin or an unblemished forearm or fame or friendship or even power…perhaps someone else might have wanted these things, and I would not have spurned all of them if offered, but those are not my deepest desire.

"I am too practical, too heartless, and too ugly to believe that I would ever attain any of those dearly cherished dreams. In fact, all I saw was blackness. Silent, quiet, blackness."

The man looked down at the stone once more, with that inscrutable look fixed in his bottomless eyes. "I knew what the Mirror of Erised was. What I could not understand was what it showed me…what was the blackness I desired? I sat in front of that mirror for days before I finally realized.

"I wished for death, Albus. For release from the hell of living two lives under the rule of two masters. I wished for calm, peaceful oblivion. I desire it still. And you received what should have been _mine_."

His eyes flashed once more, with a mix of deep, dark despair and fierce envy.

"I suppose I will get my wish in the end, Albus," he whispered, "The boy will kill me, you know that. He will never stop hunting me until he has found the traitor, the snake in the grass. And then I will have my wish. Peaceful darkness at last."

Out of his pocket, he pulled out a pair of violently fuchsia socks, covered with bright blue polka dots. He placed them on the ground next to the white tomb with a overly dramatic flourish.

"Your socks, Headmaster," Severus Snape calmly said, "I hope you found what you desired."

Snape abruptly turned on his heel and pulled up his hood, his face full of dark intent. He walked with graceful swiftness into the forest, hidden from sight beneath the cloudy dark night. If any of the residents of Hogwarts had been listening, they would have heard a crack of Apperation in the woods as the second most wanted man in the wizarding world left to join the Dark Lord.

On the Hogwarts grounds, all was quiet. A faint wind stirred the grass once more, blowing along the edges of a pair of brightly colored socks. It sang a timeless requiem of a life mourned, a world in turmoil, and a peaceful end denied.

((Snape's loyalties were meant to be ambiguous. It started out simple and then…spiraled out of my control. Thanks for reading! Review if it suits your fancy!))


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